


In Dreams

by beetle



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Post-Inception
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 11:33:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames learns to dream a lot bigger. Written for the slashthedrabbleprompt "appendage." Four hundred words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Set post-Inception, no spoilers.

  
Eames’s dreamt of this happening for five years.  
  
  
Fueled by powerful chemistry, subtle and not-so-subtle flirting, and—most recently, copious amounts of Jack Daniels and post-job adrenaline—the sexual tension between himself and Arthur has finally manifested into something from one of Eames’s many,  _many_  fantasies.  
  
  
It‘s all—from the way Arthur moans, to the competent, calloused, hands on Eames’s body, to the silk-slither of Arthur’s expensive clothes as they’re efficiently shed—coming true  _exactly_  the way Eames dreamed it would.  
  
  
The only thing Eames  _hadn’t_  predicted was that Arthur might be hung like a fifth bloody appendage.  
  
  
Really, Eames couldn’t be more dismayed about this.  
  
  
Paisley shirt still on, but trousers, pants, and shoes discarded somewhere between the foyer of Arthur’s hotel suite and the bed, Eames wonders how such a compact man could have such a circus sideshow of a prick.  
  
  
“Darling, I’m afraid there’s no way  _that_  is going to fit in any orifice on my body,” he informs Arthur. The Point-man looks down at his turgid, frankly  _intimidating_  erection then up at Eames, smiling gravely.  
  
  
“You seem to be laboring under a misconception, Mr. Eames: I don’t top.”  
  
  
“What?  _Ever_?” Off Eames’s doubtful tone, Arthur shrugs.  
  
  
“No one’s ever let me,” he says matter-of-factly, with neither hubris nor humility. It’s the way he states simple facts, whether or not he likes them. Eames huffs out a breath and sits up on his elbows, watching Arthur watch him from the foot of the bed.  
  
  
Eames’s spent almost half his life running and fighting, lying and dying for a living. He’s been shot, stabbed, torn to pieces, and beaten to death. He’s burnt to a crisp in countless fires and fallen from innumerable high places.  
  
  
Every nightmare Eames’s ever had—and a few he hadn’t—has already come horribly true.  
  
  
To date, very few of his dreams have . . . and apparently he’s been dreaming very small, indeed.  
  
  
Arthur is still watching him in a way that says he wouldn’t be surprised if Eames were to get dressed and walk out. So Eames unbuttons his shirt, shrugging it off.  
  
  
“Look, we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Or anything at all.” Arthur’s eyes trace Eames’s tattoos like déjà vu. Eames shivers, covertly touching the worn poker chip in his shirt pocket, just in case.  
  
  
“There’s a first time for everything, darling,” he says calmly, tugging a very surprised Arthur forward by his prick. “Come here.”


End file.
